


Well-Earned Lucre

by ChibiSquirt



Series: Stony Bingo [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Carnival, Gen, M/M, Mardi Gras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: Post-mission in New Orleans.  During Mardi Gras.





	Well-Earned Lucre

“This is some  _ bullshit,”  _ said Clint.  

He didn’t actually sound that upset about it, though, and Tony knew from past experience that when they were done with the mission, Clint didn’t leave and go out on the town, as he claimed to wish he were doing, but rather back to his room, where he would call his girlfriend and bitch about the giant monsters—alligators, in this case, and Tony privately though Clint’s question about how one could tell they were oversized to be a fair one, considering what the normal ones looked like—and not do much of anything.

But it actually  _ was  _ bullshit, in Tony’s opinion.  They were in New Orleans for Mardi Gras; they should be allowed to party.

Instead, they were holed up in a hotel, doing nothing.  It was only the four of them, because Thor was in Asgard and Bruce had looked deeply appalled at the idea of visiting NOLA during Mardi Gras, and that turned out to be a good thing because finding even one open double of a hotel room was damn-near impossible.  So they sat, and stared at each other, and licked their wounds, more or less literally.  

And that had led to the present moment, which was just deeply unfair, because Steve had a bite to his leg which had managed, somehow, to puncture through the armor, and it wasn’t like he was in any danger of  _ infection,  _ or anything, but he  _ was  _ in danger of being bent over almost double in order to clean it and apply dressings.  His ass was showing clearly, pressed tightly against the seat of the his jockeys.

Because he wasn’t wearing  _ pants,  _ anymore.

Tony was  _ this close _ to just giving up and having a heart attack.

And then there were the  _ noises.   _ Steve was working with his  _ wounds,  _ of course, his open, bleeding wounds, and he kept making these little grunts of pain, except that they  _ did not sound  _ like grunts of  _ pain.   _ No, no they did not.  

They sounded like... something else.

Something Tony would be well-served to keep well-separated in his mind, but somehow, every time Steve made a noise, or shifted, or huffed in frustration—he was doing that at lot, too, and oh god,  _ it did not sound like frustration  _ when Tony heard it and looked up and saw Steve bent over and— 

It would have been easier if Tony could watch him clean the wound as he did it, but that just led to his eyes tracking back to Steve’s jockey-clad ass, and that just led him down the path of disaster all over again.  No, Tony was not keeping things separate in his mind.  Not at _ all. _

It was  _ problematic.   _

Eventually, though, Clint slunk off into bed, at which point Steve—leg freshly cleaned—and Natasha perched in the window overlooking the crowd, playing on her phone and reading a book, non-respectively.  Tony himself scooted under the covers, also bringing up his cell phone and working on the sisyphean task of his email.  Which, okay, was less than thrilling, so he really couldn’t be blamed for looking up in anticipation of the impending violence when someone in the street screamed up at Natasha,  _ “Show us your tiiiiiits!” _

Screamed this at  _ Natasha.   _ This was going to be  _ hilarious.  _

Except that it wasn’t, wasn’t funny at  _ all,  _ because Natasha was not the one who responded.  

(Okay, it was still a little bit funny.)

Natasha  _ started  _ to respond—made an abortive movement towards standing up—but before she could manage it, Steve’s arm shot out across the window, pinning her into place.  He looked over at her, and Tony could see the sharp, asshole edge of the smile he shot at her.

The Steve stood up, gripped the edge of the white cotton tee he always wore under the Captain America uniform, and—still smiling like an absolute dick—raised it for the crowd until the edge was hovering two inches above his perfect, swollen-but-manly nipples.  

The crowd went wild, of course.

Steve reeled back from the window, laughing, and Natasha rolled her eyes as the beads started flying in through the window.  

“Ah, what the hell,” sighed Clint.  “It’s New Orleans, right?  Let’s go find some SoCo.”

 

* * *

 

Steve insisted on wearing all twenty-seven strands of beads to the press conference the next day.


End file.
